


Under the Stone

by Bliss_Smith



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst, F/M, because there's always that yes?, facing darkness isn't as hard as it could be, lovely dovey fluffy bits, rather mild smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-12
Updated: 2018-05-12
Packaged: 2019-05-04 21:23:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14602002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bliss_Smith/pseuds/Bliss_Smith
Summary: Orzammar in the summer, or some such shit. Directly following A Paragon of Her Kind.





	1. Chapter 1

She keeps her mind as blank as possible, moving from one step of each task to the next. _Fix the bath, get naked, get in_ , each action made with supreme attention. It’s the most important thing she’s done yet, she thinks, move her body through the tasks and keep her mind occupied until Alistair comes to her, until he can hold her and kiss her and take her out of her head. Scrub hard, strip the skin to expose a fresh, new layer, one that doesn’t carry the stink of Deep Roads rot and taint, pay attention to that alone so there is no chance to think about brood mothers and mirrors into a nightmare future she was forced into signing up for.

 

 _I’ll do it for you_ she told her father and she meant it. She didn’t say it to appease, she gave her word and if there was one thing she was raised to do it is keep her word above all else. She promised, and no matter how monstrously unfair the terms of the deal had been she can’t go back.

 

But she can’t think about that, she has been most strenuously not thinking about any of that ever since they rounded a corner into hell. _If I think about this I’ll come undone_ and that surely couldn’t happen. She was ass deep in the middle of dragging her people through the Deep Roads at the height of a Blight so she could put a probable killer and all around asshole on the throne for a country and culture that wasn’t hers, all to save the world—and she couldn’t do all that if she was crammed in a corner screaming into her fists, could she?

 

That job was finally done, Orzammar has a new King and Ferelden's sole surviving Grey Wardens and presumed future monarchs have an ally’s army to help back them up but it’s still not time to think about it. It’s been weeks since she and her beloved had the time or privacy for anything more than a few stolen kisses each day, since she had access to clean water she didn’t have to ration for drinking. It’s time to wash the horror off and replace it with the golden light of her true love’s touch, not think about the ways her tainted body might one day be used against her.

 

_Dry off. Rub the sweet smell of roses into your skin. Dress._

 

She brushes the tangles out of her hair and holds tightly the fact that she’s still beautiful and pure on the outside. So is he, they are the proverbial Golden Couple, they are going to save the world and then they are going to get married and rule their country and they are going to have the proverbial Golden Life.

 

Until they begin to rot, of course.

 

 _Breathe breathe breathe_ and it’s getting harder as the minutes pass, as her fear and her need build. _Breathe_ becomes _please_ as she sinks lower, until the only thing left holding her up is her love for him. She’s long known he’s become the reason she saves herself time after time, as the minutes press down on her like the rock over her head she comes to understand another very important thing, that this time she needs him to save her all by himself. She can’t help, she’s too far gone, trapped by her rage and her horror, that she’s expected to live like this, live with the knowledge of just how many facts were left out of the deal.

 

She kneels on the floor and waits, holding on to her faith in him.

 

~*~

 

He stops just inside the door, like he always does when he sees her. Even if they’ve only been parted for minutes it’s always the same, a pause to let himself look at her. This time it’s no different, not until he drops the baskets he’s holding.

 

“What’s wrong, love?”

 

She can’t answer that, even if she wanted to there are too many words and she doesn’t have the strength to find the right order for them. She knows, too, that many of them might be very angry, vicious words directed at the man he reveres above all other men and even in her horror-blasted numbness she knows those words need to be put off as long as she can – until they come from his mouth first, if possible.

 

So she kneels and waits and hopes he can navigate this trap himself because she can be no help at all.

 

He’s to her in a blink it seems, kneeling down so fast he skids. He’s staring her down, trying to see anything that might give a clue.

 

“Do I need to call for someone? Are you hurt?”

 

She can shake her head at that, enough to get the point across. It doesn’t take much longer to see understanding come up in his eyes. Understanding and compassion, and for a hot second his own horror but even as she sees it she sees him push it aside, shove it down. He knows she needs him and he is going to make things better.

 

He cups her face, making sure to spread his hands wide, make them as big as possible against the sides of her head. “Do you needs words or touch?”

 

She needs both but she doesn’t know how to say it, doesn’t know how to express it. Not just words and touch, not just soft words and touch. Hot, bright, fierce, she needs him to overcome the darkness spreading inside of her, needs his golden sun to

 

“Make me holy.”

 

And he does. His lips are soft and warm, his hot, sweet mouth starts at her hairline. His touch is half kiss and half simply using his lips as fingertips, to brush over her as he whispers against her skin, the heat from his words finally starting the thaw. When her tears start running down her cheeks he lets his lips find the stream, still whispering his words of love and devotion. He tells her of the moments that shine for him, how seeing her the first time felt like someone reached in and grabbed his heart. Seeing her fall in the Tower of Ishal, how he already knew he was so desperately, hopelessly in love with her strength and her laugh, the way she’s always felt like a cool drink on a hot day.

 

He gives her every moment that fills his heart and when she finally starts to breath again he lets his hands slip down to her neck, to stroke her skin until her breathing turns into soft little hitches and she’s tilting her head back, the feel of his heat and love bringing her back from the darkness.


	2. Chapter 2

 “Magic,” she whispers, knowing it to be true. She can feel him smile against her neck and she laughs finally, a light trill of pure delight.

 

He laughs with her and moves a hand to find her arm, to slide down and gently grasp her hand. He pulls it down between their bodies, letting her palm find his cock, already thick and throbbing. “You turn flesh into stone, my sweet witch.”

 

She lets her fingers work quickly, opening his trousers to slip her hand inside. She rubs her palm over the head, getting her hand wet as he drips faster for her touch. “The romantic necromancer, you’ve brought me back from the dead.”

 

“I’ll move the stars themselves to bring you back, my love, never doubt that.”

 

“Lay me down,” she whispers softly. “Tell me more.”

 

He does that too, wrapping his arm around her to gently lay her back on the stone floor. She’s not sure what he has in mind but she knows what she has in her hand and she knows she’s done with waiting. She pulls her gown up enough get her legs around him, get their hips in the right place so she can pull his cock from his pants and guide it into her.

 

“Best magic, two bodies into one.” She breathes, thinking it’s true, how they fit together so perfectly.

 

“The real magic was convincing myself to not do this in the middle of the Deep Roads. It got so bad I was getting hard watching you stick your sword in some darkspawn’s chest.” His voice is a warm tickle against her temple as he rocks his hips, letting his cock slide in and out with a soft, exquisitely slow tempo.

 

He holds himself up on one arm to smile down at her. The way the candlelight frames him is purely holy, he is her Sun and her God, her Maker and Prophet rolled into one, so bright she knows she doesn’t have to fear the darkness in either of them.

 

“I wanted you like that.” She says it before she can change her mind but can’t keep going, she has to wait for his reaction first. She thinks she knows it, thinks she knows him well enough to know it, but still. If his lip curls the wrong way over this discussion it’s going to hurt.

 

He gives himself a moment to think her words through, or maybe just think himself through, before his smile changes. He’s carrying his own darkness, isn’t he? Something poured in with the Chantry rhetoric and being honed by a heavy fog of taint. “Like what?”

 

“Oh you know, swords and shields clattering to the ground, armor pushed down just enough for access.” She smiles up at him as she does some hips tricks of her own, throwing in a few well times muscle clenches, using her cunt the way she would her hand. “I wanted you to shove me up against the wall and fuck me, in front of everyone, in front of the damned darkspawn even, never mind the death and the smell of that place, that was part of what I wanted. Just, mindless. Nothing but bodies and dark, driving need.”

 

“In my version we’re naked and bloody. There’s some screaming, too. Growling.” He’s smiling as he says it but she knows he’s serious. As light as he’s trying to make it he’s still willing to own his darkness with her.

 

And isn’t that exactly what she needs to live with her own? “I like that version. We need to do that, go back some day. Just the two of us. Find some dark, wicked place.”

 

“In the Deep Roads or in us?” He adds touch to his words, digging them deeper as he clamps his hands down on her hips, holding tight to leave the bruises she loves to find. He holds her steady and pushes hard, burying himself balls deep inside her.

 

“Yes,” She sighs out, a quiet counterpoint to the _yes!_ she’s screaming in her head. “Both.” She lifts and reaches to grab his shoulders, tugging on him just enough to ask for what she wants. She knows she can simply yank him down on top of her but she likes it better when he does it himself, when he turns his body weight into a slow moving avalanche across her.

 

He gathers her up under him, tucking her just right for maximum skin contact and thrust depth. She always comes undone when he does it, the way he holds her so tight to him she can almost feel their skin fuse.

 

“I want you in the most unholy ways, sometimes.” he whispers. He pulls back just enough to watch her face and she understands he’s steeling himself, worried about how her lip might curl.

 

“Tell me.” It’s half command and half begging plea, the tone she always gets when he’s setting her on fire in some new and exciting way. “Please.”

 

He has to stop and kiss her deeply first, let his tongue light up her mouth the way his cock is lighting up the rest of her.

 

“Altars and ropes and knives and fire. Screaming and dripping and bathing in tears.”

 

“Our own blood magic.”

 

His face lights up more at that. “Yes, that’s it.”

 

“Who gets tied up?” That’s an important question, isn’t it? She can’t decide what she likes more, the image of him naked and bound in front of her, or her in front of him.

 

“We’ll take turns.”

 

Her chest constricts, hard and fast enough to leave her breathless and slightly worried that something is breaking inside her. It’s just emotion, though, something as simple and world-shattering as how much she loves him, how much her is a part of her now, tucked in with her strength and her faith and the darkness she has to accept.

 

 _You didn’t know about him, either_ she whispers to herself, a solid counterpoint to her rage at being left in the dark about the dark, about brood mothers and why Wardens choose to fall on their swords. Another question floats in, tickling along her nerves the way his mouth is tickling along her neck: _had you known about both what would your choice have been?_

 

There would have been no choice, no contest for what she would pick. She knows that as well as she knows her name. As well as she knows what her name will be.

 

She moves her hand from the back of his neck, to find his chin and gently push his head back up. Try to, at first; he’s not ready to stop biting her neck but for the moment she’s in charge and she pushes harder, leaving no doubt she expects him to do as she wishes. They can go back to trading the reins in a few minutes, but now she needs to say this, needs to tell him so she can let the truth heal her. He props himself up on his elbows and waits, holding himself still. It doesn’t take him long to know it’s something important.

 

“If that’s my fate I’ll choose it, if it means having you. Our love is worth that price.”

 

He gasps and winces, like she stabbed him instead of spoke. She didn’t mean to but that’s okay too, she’s wearing the same expression herself, she thinks. Their love is as sharp as it is strong. It will always be their greatest strength, even when it cuts through the bone. Especially then.

 

His tears feel like hot summer rain on her face, like holy water and heart’s blood. She has to smile even as her own tears start, she has to stick out her tongue and move her head, let his tears drip onto her tongue.

 

“If I can’t save you from it I’ll see it through with you, my love. I’ll never leave you alone in the darkness. We stay together, no matter what happens.”

 

She can only cry out, in pain and pleasure, her heart is swelling and shattering and she doesn’t know what else to do but that’s okay, he does. He bends to lick her tears, to laugh against her cheek as he rocks his hips, rocks deep into her and presses her against the stone.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Fibro fog made this far harder to write than it should have been, but I'm too stubborn to put it off. Would like to come back and expand on this/shine it up when I can word better.


End file.
